


Of Sweet Talking, Night Walking Games

by jld_az



Series: Just Another Future Song [3]
Category: Chronicles of Amber - Roger Zelazny
Genre: (So much banter), (because it's the 70's), (but also they're kinda superhuman?), (in a roundabout way), Aural Kink, Banter, Canon Parallel w/ Copious Artistic License, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Kink Negotiation, Mild D/S undertones, Smoking, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:35:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23574751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jld_az/pseuds/jld_az
Summary: Martin takes Aunna to Texorami for the first time. It's averyenlightening trip.Title from 'Queen Bitch' by David Bowie
Relationships: Martin / Ariaunna (OFC)
Series: Just Another Future Song [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1696642
Kudos: 2





	Of Sweet Talking, Night Walking Games

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, it's longer than the other shorts, but I wanted to detail Martin's influences a bit. Again, this is not required reading for my “And We Are Merely Players” series, but there's lots of world building, and character / relationship development.
> 
> Setting: Port Laskill, Texorami  
> Timestamp: May 1981 (in Keene)

“Hey, what are you doing the next couple hours?”

Aunna was curled into the corner of the sofa, book open across her upturned lap, one hand placekeeping, the other balled in a loose fist between her temple and the backrest. She lifted her free shoulder, and made a noncommittal sound.

“Want to come spend a few days in Texorami?”

She looked then, head lifting slowly as she regarded him, baffled. “You’re serious?”

Martin shrugged. “There’s a music festival on,” he offered by way of explanation. “Massive. Outdoors. Weather’s generally good this time of year. Thought you might enjoy it…”

He trailed off when her face bloomed into a smile. Couldn’t help but return it. Then,

“Wait,” he laughed. “What were _you_ thinking?”

One eyebrow lifted as her gaze traveled downward, mouth curling to match when she reached just south of his belt.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he practically growled, and her eyes flicked up to meet his. “That’s _definitely_ on the agenda.”

Aunna snapped her book shut and set it aside; rose like a flame, smooth and incendiary.

“Transport?” she asked, turning down the blinds for the evening.

“Horses,” he said, jerking his head in the direction of the barn.

She nodded, took his hand as she passed to the door, and pulled him through it into the tack room. He made an exasperated sound.

“It’s less than two hundred yards, A,” he chided. “You can run that in your sleep.”

“I’m conserving energy,” she countered, letting go to pick up her saddle, and hook a bridle over her shoulder. She stopped just in the aisle, however. Dropped her chin to her chest, sighed, then rolled a look toward him. “Did you _want_ to pack?”

He shook his head with a long-suffering chuckle. “It’s fine.” She immediately continued toward the stalls, and he called after her, “Thanks for asking, though.”

* * *

Few things could ‘bombproof’ a horse like taking them through Shadow, so they saddled up a couple of her trainees and headed out, with Martin leading the way.

He gave her a little history as they went; explained that Texorami had once been a mining colony on a terraformed planet in a galaxy that’d gone apocalyptic at some point. Their existence was evidence of hyperspace transport in the past, and certain technologies - mainly communication, recording, and broadcasting - were still employed; but now they traveled by horseback, or train, or steamer, or zeppelin. There were dense coastal cities, and tiny inland collectives, and they had all the standard socio-economic issues that occur between them-

“-but the music scene is stellar,” he held up a thumb, then an index finger, “what tech they have is doing amazing shit,” a third digit flicked up, “and they have some pretty forgiving attitudes toward the more asinine social taboos.”

“‘Asinine social taboos’,” she repeated, with a curious lilt.

He cut her an unreadable expression. “I’m not talking .. kids, or animals, or corpses. That shit’ll likely get you skinned, honestly. No,” he shook his head, tone lightening. “I mean harmless, to-each-their-own, anti-Puritanical stuff. Boys wearing makeup, women going topless, people tricking as a legit profession. Those sorta things.”

Aunna didn’t seem averse; just contemplative. He grinned, moved his mare closer to her gelding, reached across to tuck loose hair behind her ear.

“You’ll see,” he said, voice pitched low. “It’ll be fun.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” she conceded with a slow, sly smirk. “Because it _sounds_ like you’re taking me to your proving grounds, and I’m _very_ curious to see where you learned that thing you do with-”

He leaned heavy into one stirrup, pulled her mouth to his and slid that tongue inside. It was awkward on horseback, but she opened up to it with interest; angled her mount so his shoulder halted the mare and she could kiss back, run her fingers into Martin’s hair and clench when he performed said ‘thing'. She let out a low sound when he eased away. He licked her taste off his lips, and watched his thumb roll across hers as he did; settled again astride his horse, with minor adjustment. Aunna fixed him with a shrewd stare.

“Are you working me up on purpose?” she asked.

“Pretty sure the ‘working up’ is mutual,” he countered with a sideways glance. Then he shrugged, and nudged his mare back into motion. “Honestly, I’ve been wanting to bring you for a while, and I’m glad to finally have a good excuse.”

* * *

The ride was barely twenty minutes along a very well-worn Path. It deposited them in a narrow alleyway between two tall brick-and-mortar buildings, facing a street as busy as any from 1880’s London, but cast surreal in pre-dawn halogen. Aunna balked a moment, caught in the dichotomy. Martin reined to a halt a short way up, and observed the traffic.

“It’s earlier than I thought,” he said, turning back to her. “Nickel tour?”

She nodded, and fell in alongside when he stepped out onto the street, and it really _was_ like Victorian England as reimagined by Ridley Scott, but with better fashion and less aliens. Carriages trotted past holographic billboards - their images made hazy by the morning mist - ferrying people dressed in practical but tough-wear clothing toward an archway a few blocks away (“Fairfax Station D”, it stated. Then below: “G - 5cn / A - 10cn”).

There was no reasoning to the lay of the streets, yet there clearly existed a system of yielding to greater masses that ruled the flow of traffic — carriages trumped pedestrians only until the crowd was large enough to press forward, then the right-of-way shifted. It was functional chaos, and she marveled at it until the press of bodies was also clunking under the weight of ordnance, causing her horse to shuffle uncomfortably. She stroked the gelding’s neck, made a soothing sound, but her gaze followed them, then shifted to Martin.

“City Militia,” he said, dismissively. Her eyebrows shot up, and she tilted her head after them with naked skepticism. “Truth!” he added, right hand raising then palming briefly over his heart; an oath. “Festival is a pretty big deal. They’re activated to keep things from getting squirrely. That’s all.”

She appeared to remain unconvinced, and made a sound to double-down on that impression when she caught his eye from the corner of hers, but did not question further.

They stopped to let their horses drink from a communal trough; watched the sunrise play off the fountain that kept the tanks from getting stagnant. Aunna bent a knee up over her mount’s withers to sit sidesaddle, a picture of ease.

“How did you find this place?”

She didn’t look at him when she asked; rather her focus was on the bustle of people waiting to board the zeppelin anchored above the Fairfax Station. Martin let his reins loop over the pommel, and fished out his cigarettes.

“I thought it was by accident.” He shook two up, and angled the pack toward her. She accepted one, and he pinched the other between his lips to pull it out. The package was returned to his pocket, and he hummed thankfully for the lighter she extended, blew smoke to the side and cast a glance around as though orientating. Finally he pointed over his shoulder to a building behind them, and said, “I was watching a broadcast in _that_ bar when I found out my dad had been here.”

“Random?” Her attention snapped to him, then to the bar. “Was _here_?”

Martin drew on his cigarette and nodded, then tilted his head in conflict and wavered a hand. “Not _here_ here,” he amended. “Other side of the continent. He’d won a poker tournament or something. The prize was big enough that it’d made the news cycle.”

“And it was Really him?” The emphasis was obvious; and she was looking at him now, giving as much of her attention as she’d ever allow in public.

“He wasn’t exactly subtle, going by Random Barimen and all. But yeah, it was.”

She picked up the inflection. Compared it against other times he’d mentioned his father. And there was a question forming on the tip of her tongue-

“C’mon,” he said, filling the gap first and taking up his reins. He aimed the mare down Fountain Parkway, and her gelding followed automatically as Aunna righted her seat.

* * *

They rode past storefronts in companionable silence for a few blocks before he halted again, this time in front of an establishment called The Rusty Nail. He dismounted, and jerked his chin for her to do the same. A valet stepped forward as she did; passed a chit to Martin, and clipped matching ribbons to the horse’s manes before leading the pair down a side alley.

Martin brushed a knuckle across the back of her hand; a silent question, or an invitation. Aunna hooked her index finger around his pinky just long enough for him to direct her toward the entrance, then slid her hands into her back pockets. He fell in beside her.

Inside, the decor was an amalgam of old west smithy and sci-fi wet dream, with surfaces of wood and brick and metal, holographic light and so much _sound_ it was like every spot in the place was optimized for listening. Even in these early hours people lounged in booths, taking in the performer on stage. It was mild, perfect waking music, made for the sodium light filtering through the windows at her back.

“This is nice,” Aunna said.

“Thanks,” he replied. “I enjoy it.”

And if it seemed like an odd response, she ignored it. Instead she bumped him with her elbow, and nodded toward the towering vent over the forge opposite the entrance.

“They serve food?”

“They do,” he nodded, distracted, and looked toward the back, where an archway cut through the wall next to the stage.

She cast him a curious glance, turned to face him, and said, “What are you-”

“MARTINGALE!”

The booming baritone came from the archway over her shoulder. _Martingale?_ she mouthed, and watched Martin’s eyes momentarily roll back even while his face split into an honest grin.

“Rex,” he replied, in a more moderate volume, and she resumed a post beside him; politeness, not possessiveness. Martin stepped up into her vacated spot and embraced the other man with fond familiarity. “How’s Festival?”

“Time of our lives, man.” The burly fellow clapped Martin’s back twice before stepping away, rubbed the same hand into his eye and then across his slick-shaved head, raked it through his chest-length beard. “Glad you could make it. Boys’ll be thrilled.”

He startled slightly then, blinking at Aunna as if only just realizing she was standing there.

“Hi,” she said.

Even half asleep, Rex’s face performed some impressive acrobatics. It closed off abruptly, and he opened his mouth to say something that, based on his expression, she suspected would be acerbic, and she felt one eyebrow rising in amused anticipation.

“So, Rex,” Martin interjected, sliding the smallest bit between them. “This is Kate.”

The man bit down on whatever he was about to say, and his eyes shuffled between the two of them a moment. His pitbull expression melted into confusion, then absolute delight. He pointed at her, his mouth a perfect O in the wiry hair surrounding it.

“This yer old lady?”

She refocused that quirked brow on Martin, who had the audacity to meet her gaze and actually look _thoughtful_ before responding;

“ _Technically?_ ”

Aunna crossed her arms, and sucked her teeth in a put-upon way. “Pup,” she drawled, “you can only _hope_ to look so good.”

“‘ _Pup_ ’?” Rex looked suitably abashed. “Shit, man. Did I just put you in the dog house?”

“Is there room?” Aunna turned her curiosity back to Rex, her tone ribbing. “Only I’d hate to put a good guard dog out.” She extended a hand in greeting then; smiled cheerily.

“Oooh, I like her,” Rex decreed, face creasing in a grin, his hand engulfing hers before giving it a small pump. “Christopher Rex.”

“Kate Rozenberg,” she replied.

* * *

The three sat down in a booth left of the stage, where Martin knew she’d have acceptable sightlines. They ordered a variety of greasy breakfast pub foods, and ate them while Aunna learned more about Texorami — specifically its music scene (of which Rex was an active member), and Martin’s place in it.

“You _do_ know he’s got a following, yeah?” Rex asked her, and Martin flushed behind his coffee.

“You’re so full of shit,” he chuckled.

“Dear Mister Gale,” the other man continued, his voice pitching higher in falsetto. He batted his eyes coquettishly. “If it’s not too much trouble, I would be ever so grateful for a lock of your hair-”

“Wait,” Aunna blurted into her mug. “Seriously?”

“Fuck _off_ , Rex!” But he was _really_ laughing now, and casting her a furtive glance. Then he simpered a little in adding, “Just once.”

She leveled him with an unimpressed stare: _Now_ _who’s full of shit?_

Rex eased back on his bench, chewing the end of his cigar contemplatively. “So, when are you heading over?” he asked.

Martin shrugged. “Late afternoon.” He lit a cigarette, offered it to her out of casual habit. “Thought I’d grab a few things, show Kate around, maybe aim for lunch on The Green.”

“Need a lift?”

Martin shook his head. “We’re set. But if you still wanted to borrow-”

“Oh, yeah!” Rex sat up abruptly, then surged to his feet. “Arnie’s been nagging me about it for _weeks_.”

With a small nod, Martin finished his coffee and looked at Aunna. “Quick pit stop.”

“As you like. It’s your weekend.” She passed back the cigarette with a smirk, stood when he did, and followed him through the archway, then up the stairs beyond it.

They met Rex in front of a blast door at the top, where he was fighting to extract a keyring from his pants with his gargantuan hands. He finally succeeded by turning the entire pocket inside out, and inserted one of the keys into a slot above his left hand, which he’d rested on a small, blue-lit panel. He turned the key clockwise. When the panel flashed red beneath his palm, he spoke clearly.

“Sandbox. Coltswood. Erbium.”

There was a pause, then a faint beep. The light began a lazy yellow pulse. Rex stepped back; made a motion like an aborted bow. Martin clapped his friend’s shoulder and took his place, bringing his hand to rest where the other’s had been.

“Trumpet. Seahorse. Walla-Walla.”

The flashing stopped, there was another beep, and the light turned green. Martin rotated the key back to the left, and the panel resumed its original blue. He flipped the ring around his finger once, twice, then pressed the fob on it with his thumb.

The blast door lifted. Martin entered. Rex stepped in behind. After a brief hesitation, Aunna followed.

The base aesthetic of the apartment matched the bar downstairs: wood, brick, metal. The floorplan was also open, wholly indefensible, with a wall of windows overlooking the City Circle directly across from the entryway, and a series of well-spaced skylights along the ceiling. Areas were set apart by their furnishings and the strategic placement of shelves: kitchen to the right, bed and wardrobe to the left, a sprawl of cozy chairs and sofas between them. The floor was hardwood, dotted with rugs in the lower-traffic areas. The only other door was near the sleeping area, presumably for the bath.

But the specifics marked this as _Martin’s_ space. Materials and patterns, the preferred curve of a seat back, the colour of a throw. And there was music _everywhere_. The shelves resembled the ones he had kept in Burbank, now kept in Keene. Any walls not covered in glass bore tacked showbills, mounted instruments, more recordings. And it occurred to her that _this_ was where he came when he wasn’t with her; that he _lived_ here, just as much as they did together. It gave her an unexpectedly warm feeling, being let into it.

Aunna watched him cross to one of the guitars, pull it down and sling it into a case, then hand the case to Rex. She stopped in the middle of the sitting room, and made a slow circle as Martin escorted his friend to the door, asking,

“What time do you go on?”

“After sunset,” Rex responded. He nodded over Martin’s shoulder toward her in a peripheral farewell. She returned it as Martin clapped him on the back at the threshold.

“Thanks for keeping an eye on the place,” Martin concluded. Rex just waved over the railing as he descended the steps.

The door shut, and her skin prickled with it — a subtle adjustment, an odd sensation of her power dampening, her other senses sharpening.

“What was that?” she asked.

He turned to her, and the golden shafts of light pouring through the windows lit him fiery; limned her ethereal.

“Shielding,” he supplied. “I hope you’re not expecting any calls.”

And she wanted to ask him how he’d managed that, but then he continued,

“You look good there.”

His voice pitched low. Honest. _Hungry_. She felt her tongue slip across her lips, a subconscious reflex to arousal; watched his eyes take in the motion, darken in response.

Then he was striding toward her, looping an arm around her middle and crowding her back against a shelf. His mouth bore down on hers, establishing his desire to run this scene. She offered a token resistance by nipping his lower lip; he pulled firmly on the ends of her hair until she relented, tilting back, broke the kiss with a mute gasp.

“I’m going to fuck you,” he breathed into her ear, cheek rubbing against hers. “Eventually.” It was as much an offering as a promise, made evident when he asked permission: “Savvy?”

Every point along the front of him was pressed to her counterpoint, a seam of heat made maddening by the layers of fabric between them. She nodded almost frantically when he used his free hand to lift the hair back from her neck, wrap it loosely around his fist, and she opened her mouth fully expecting him to kiss her again, only-

“Need to _hear_ it, sweetheart-”

“ _Yes_ ,” she choked out when he undercut the words with a slow roll of his hips, the hard line of him sliding against her thigh, too far from where she wanted it to be.

He smiled against her throat, pressed a small kiss to the skin below her ear as he let her hair slide from his grip. The hand at her back wormed its way under her shirt. Calloused fingertips slid upward; blunted nails drew down.

“I’m happy you’re here.”

He stepped backward, held her as if to dance and she followed; eased her to straddle his lap when he sat on a sofa. He pulled her shirt up until she took over its removal, mouthed wetly at the mound of a breast when it came into view, roved her bare skin with splayed hands before letting her pull his shirt over his head to join hers on the floor; wrapped firm fingers across her hips when she started to grind down against him, directed her angle, her pace.

She was slickening with sweat, and when he licked it from the V of her throat, she hissed at the ceiling through gritted teeth, lost her rhythm for the slightest beat. Her thighs flexed outside his, and she curled forward to kiss him, thick and dirty.

The message was clear: _more, now_.

He responded by tipping her over onto the seat beside them, so she was supine and he was seated between her legs. Her hair fanned across the armrest, borderline debauched. His fingers ran down her body, from her neck to her navel. The look he gave her while he did it was shameless.

“I wonder, sometimes…” His voice dipped away, and his nails traced across the skin of her abdomen, just above her jeans.

She sighed inward when he thumbed open the button, parted the zip tooth-by-tooth; somehow managed to prompt, “Wonder?”

His hand massaged down and around her haunch, lifted her knee up off of his lap and set her foot on the floor. He slid back from the join of her thighs, leaned forward instead to grip the waistband of her jeans in wordless request. She lifted her hips, pulled her legs together over herself just long enough to facilitate, then resumed the sprawl he’d positioned her in as he dropped the denim behind the sofa.

“If you really have no idea what you do to me.” He watched his right hand smooth over her left knee; moved it up her exposed thigh until his thumb came to rest in the crease of her pelvis. “Of all the things I want to do to you, when you’re like this.”

She wriggled deliciously under his gaze, voice breathy. “Naked on your sofa?”

“Pliant,” he responded, candid and casual. His head shook minutely as he watched his thumb stroke closer to the small thatch of hair that marked his destination. “You didn’t used to be. I know it took effort.”

“Takes,” she corrected, shooting him an almost stern look from beneath her lashes. “It taaaaa-”

Then her eyes fluttered shut, and the word deteriorated into a full-throated whine as two fingers slipped between her folds, stroked the hardened nub hidden there a moment before sliding down into her, replaced by the roll / flicker / suction of his tongue.

“Oh sweet Jesus fuck, Marty,” she moaned. “Hooooowwww do .. how…”

Sometimes she switched languages like this, fluid from English to Thari, Malwainese, Deigan; he learned to interpret the dialect more than the words as a clue to her needs. But when she raked her fingers into his hair, combed roughly against his scalp, and whispered out a clearly poetic cadence with heavy vowel sounds, he knew he’d gone someplace new.

And then she was gasping, and arching upward, and shuddering, and clenching his digits where they stilled inside her. He worked her through with light presses of his flattened tongue, let the aftershocks abate before withdrawing, soothed her trembling muscles with his palms as he sat up. After several moments, Aunna gave him a bleary-eyed smile.

“You,” she said, sounding slightly drunk and winded, “are amazing.”

“ _You_ ,” he countered, looking amused and disheveled, “broke out a whole new language on me.”

She chuckled. “Must’ve done something _very_ right, then.”

Her hand caught his when it sloped along the curve of her stomach, tugged as a request to move closer. He complied, taking care not to crush her upturned knee against the back of the sofa when he did. She sat up, and pulled him into a kiss; ran a palm across his chest and down his ribs. He returned the former, but stilled the latter when it reached his abdomen.

“Thought you were going to fuck me?” she taunted against his lips.

“‘Eventually’,” he repeated, leaning back to meet her gaze. “I wasn’t condescending when I said I’d been wanting to bring you here. I really _do_ wanna show you around a bit.”

Aunna glanced at his lap. Quirked an eyebrow. “All evidence to the contrary.”

“I have a plan,” he waved her off. “And right now, that plan is to shower, and change, and then take a stroll through the Arts District.” Giving her a quick final peck, he stroked her sex-tangled hair, got to his feet, and offered her a hand up, jutting his chin toward the door near the sleeping area. “You can go first.”

She accepted his assistance, bobbled only a moment before pressing up against him to steady herself. It was difficult to miss the way his eyes flashed at the contact - he was clearly exercising serious restraint in keeping to his “plan” - but if he wanted to deny himself a while, it wouldn’t be right of her to force the issue.

So she stepped around him and headed to the bath, and left him to his own devices when he traded places with her after she’d finished.

* * *

He’d turned on the stereo as she’d washed. It piped through unseen speakers from a secret origin, drowning out the hiss of the shower without blaring to do it. The music was familiar but nothing she knew, yet she found herself humming along as she toweled off.

The wardrobe by the bed stood open, and the left side contained several items of local style that were clearly bespoke to her: Durable wool trousers with matching vests and jackets, a few lightweight shirts in subtle patterns of green and bronze, belts and braces paired on the inner wall, a couple sets of ankle boots on the floor. At a glance the right side looked similar, only coloured differently - blues and sands - and tailored for a man’s figure.

She selected pieces at random and pulled them on, leaving off the vest and jacket but accepting the braces. She elected to put her own boots back on, which were already properly broken in, then pondered the eclectic form she presented to the mirror, and judged it suitable based on her impressions so far.

She was exploring the rest of the apartment when Martin exited the bath, steam billowing in his wake, toothbrush in his cheek. His towel was slung low around his hips, acres of blood-flushed skin catching the light from all those massive windows as he crossed to the wardrobe. She watched surreptitiously as he pulled items out and tossed them onto the bed with one hand, worked the toothbrush with the other. Beads of condensation collected along the ridge of his scar, slid down toward the V of his abdomen when the droplet got too heavy.

She made a small, appreciative sound. He looked in her direction, hair flopping over his forehead, and his eyes widened slightly. He took her in with a slow-travelling gaze. He pulled the toothbrush out of his mouth.

“Do you like it?” he asked, somewhat muffled.

She stepped from behind the shelf, put her hands in her back pockets, and assumed a casual lean against the end cap, crossing one foot over the other.

“Do _you_?” she asked in return.

He tilted her a wry smile and returned to the bathroom; reemerged sans toothbrush and tousling a hand through his damp hair. He dropped his towel to dress, and she admired the curve of his backside until he covered it again. His final style was similar to hers - trousers, shirt, belt, vest - and while she’d seen him in all manner of casual attire over the years, this was the first time she’d seen him in something that looked so .. _right_.

Martin closed the wardrobe doors; checked himself in the mirror; picked up the towel and hung it in the bath. He sat in one of the chairs to pull on his boots, then stood and picked up a few items from the table by the entry: the chit, his keys, and a slender, palm-sized rectangle she recognized as a communication device.

“Ready?”

He spoke the question before looking up from the comm in his hand. It’d made a small chiming sound when he’d retrieved it, and she could see little flashes of light propagating the screen until he clutched it a certain way and the surface went black. He slid it into his pocket, and raised an eyebrow at her.

Shrugging forward, Aunna moved right up into his space and examined him for a moment. Finally she said,

“Yes, I like it.”

He gave her a smile and a kiss. The playback paused when he opened the blast door. Aunna felt a trill go up her spine as the Shield lifted. 

“How did you pull _that_ off, by the way?” she asked, following him out onto the landing.

He flipped the keyring around his finger. “Gift from my Awesome Aunt.”

She tilted a curious look. “I didn’t know Llew could do that.”

“She can’t,” he replied, closing the door with the fob and descending the stairs, dropping the keyring into his hip pocket as he did. “But she knows people.”

They exited via a rear door hidden behind the stairs, into a small courtyard that served as the establishment’s livery: Aunna caught sight of their horses, untacked and tethered and munching contentedly in one of the larger stalls, before a valet hustled over to intercept.

“I’m sorry,” she was saying, “but patrons aren- Oh!” Her expression brightened, then smoothed to something more professional. “Good morning, Mister Gale.”

Martin gave the young woman a charming smile and a small nod. “Just taking the quiet route, Telly.”

“Of course,” she responded. Aunna saw her observe their proximity with a quick glance, and resisted the urge to step away out of some latent propriety. “Can I get your horses?”

Martin shook his head, already directing Aunna toward the gate that would let them onto the street. “Thank you, no,” he said. “Going to walk for a bit.”

The valet did not rush ahead to open the door for them; merely offered, “Enjoy your day, sir,” and returned to her duties.

The oppressive traffic had abated some with the loss of morning commuters, and thinned out even more once they’d passed Fairfax Station. They strolled in comfortable silence for a bit before she felt his fingers graze the back of her right hand, and she turned her palm out to let him clasp it, digits twining. He steered her toward a narrow rise of dog leap steps between a pair of rough-faced warehouses, their stone façades weathered and faded, unglassed windows staring like solemn sentinels.

Aunna became aware of a low drone of sound from above, a slow crescendo that reached its fullness when they stepped up onto a rooftop lawn dotted with brightly coloured tents and open-sided stands. It was such a cacophony of sensory input - sights and smells and activity, _so much activity_ \- that she hesitated, and was oddly comforted by the steadying squeeze of Martin’s fingers when she did.

“You good?” he asked, in a volume only she would hear, when she finally stopped clocking the area.

“Good,” she responded, and let her shoulders relax. “The Green?”

He nodded, and stroked her thumb with his before resuming their walk. “Arts District,” he added. “Bit of a catchall marketplace for vendors that don’t need a full storefront, or sell seasonal wares.”

“Is it always this busy?”

“Busier, actually.” Martin traversed them between a cast bronze nymph and a stand of bright fuchsia blooms. “Festival has people distracted.”

Her smile was wistful. “Reminds me of Landry's Faire,” she said.

“Where’s that?”

“Cathair du Varos.” Her fingers trod across a delicate bolt of aquamarine cloth, and she paused, imagining how it would look with her Deigan colours. Then, “Malwain,” she added as an explainer when he didn’t respond. “Maybe I’ll take you, sometime.”

Martin smiled, and almost managed to hide his surprise when she kissed his cheek before asking the vendor what they would like for the fabric.

* * *

They wove a meandering circuit through the market, making small talk and smaller purchases and generally enjoying the day. And sure, occasionally she’d become aware of eyes on them - or, rather, him - but never with malicious intent, so she made note but didn’t engage. Eventually they ended up sitting on the edge of the rooftop, legs dangling as they ate meat pies and drank beer made from fermented fruit, overlooking a vast expanse of water that rolled lazy but broke fierce against the rocky shore far below.

“Why ‘Gale’?” she asked, as though the question had been turning around in her head and, unable to come to her own conclusion, finally required his input.

Martin lit a cigarette, deposited the pack between them, and leaned over onto one elbow, regarding her.

“When I first got here,” he said, “I bought a really nice guitar - a Nightingale 4200, pretty much the Stradivarius of six strings - from this absolute madman with a storefront on Coltswood.”

Her expression turned insightful. “Rex?”

He nodded. “ _He_ started calling me Martingale after one of the guys in his band - Arnie - went a bit tongue tied asking if he could play it. Nickname stuck, people started to assume it was a run-on of my full name, and now…”

He trailed off with a shrug. She lit a cigarette of her own, bent one knee up to turn toward him and rested her chin on it, looking thoughtful.

“Does he know?” she ventured. “About who — _what_ you are?”

“No,” Martin shook his head, dismissive rather than defensive. “I’m sure he suspects _something_ might be strange, because I leave for extended periods and can’t be reached by comms, but I was sixteen and looked it when I met him, so it’s not like I’ve had to explain my longevity.”

“Yet,” she said.

One shoulder rose and fell. “For what it’s worth, people who can afford to ‘age gracefully’ here don’t hesitate to get the work done.” He propped his temple on his fist, and gave her a curious look. “What do you do, when..?”

She lifted her head. “When the passage of time makes me an oddity to my neighbours?” He raised his eyebrows, prompting, genuine; and she couldn’t help but laugh. “Well, if I _weren’t_ a Shapeshifter-”

And he made a self-deprecating sound, easing over onto his back to blow smoke at the sky.

“Yeah, I’m probably not the one you should be asking for advice on this, Marty.” She unfolded slightly, crawled forward until she could lay her head on his stomach, their bodies forming a slanted T in the grass. “Honestly though, legal documents and relocation go a long way. I know your options for the latter here are limited, but time passes quicker than Keene, right?” She rolled her head across him, and he lifted his to look down at her with an affirmative sound. She turned her attention back to the blue. “If it’s the _place_ you love, it's actually pretty easy to become your own descendant, after a long enough absence.”

His head settled back on the grass, and he made a small, acknowledging hum.

* * *

They lay out on the lawn for a time, smoking and sunning, his fingers coiling a lock of her hair, hers stroking idly at the inside of his forearm. It was pleasantly satiating, with the murmuration of The Green and the shush of the current. Finally he cycled a deep breath, as if rousing from a doze, and brushed her hair back from her forehead.

“We should go,” he said, running his hand under the crown of her head and urging her to sit up.

She complied, turned slightly when he followed suit, and it was natural momentum to lean in for the kiss; soft and simmering, like the day itself. They lingered in it for long heartbeats, felt the keen edge of real heat beneath, but parted well before catching fire. They gathered their detritus, disposed of it on their way to the stairs, and walked back to The Rusty Nail; stopped only long enough to leave her satchel of purchases before making their way to Fairfax Station. They boarded a zeppelin marked Festival Express, and took positions near the front of the gondola, where she could see the approach through the observation windows.

“You know, I’ve never actually been on one of these before?”

“Old World scholar like you?” Martin pulled an exaggeratedly shocked expression. “I don’t buy it.”

“Get bit, New Boot,” she chided, with humor.

But then he was slithering against her back, mouth brushing the shell of her ear when he replied, “Maybe later.”

“‘Later’,” she hissed with false venom. “‘Eventually’. You’re running up an awful lot of debt, lover.”

He tensed slightly, as if her response had been unexpected, then covered her hands on the railing with his and said, “I’m good for it.”

“ _Yeah_ you are.”

And then she was catching his faded reflection via the observation glass, and failing to stifle her giggle. He let his forehead rest on her shoulder, a simple surrender to join her in it.

The gondola filled up around them, and the atmosphere grew buoyant with revelers in their multitudes: all states of dress (full, half, barely, costumed, plain-clothed) and sobriety; gendered pan, cis, non; diversity in microcosm, an orgy of energy, everyone riotous and carefree and-

“This makes _so_ much sense,” Aunna suddenly realized.

She felt the vibration of his chest against her back; heard him make a querying sound. She slid her hands free, and turned in the circle of his arms.

“I know LA was a hotbed of promiscuity, but _c’mon_.” She curled an eyebrow at him, voice dipping into her most teasing tone, “You were so _easy_.” Her eyes tracked down the scant space between them, sultry. “So _willing_.”

It got a flush out of him, and she preened a little at the point scored.

“Yeah,” he drawled, scanning the room. “You weren’t far off when you called this my ‘proving grounds’.” Then he focused on her, expression shrewd. “But, A? I didn’t even have to buy you a _beer_.”

“Oof,” she placed a hand over her heart, a melodrama. “Harsh.”

Martin shortened his grip, pressed her back toward the glass, made a tightened sound in his throat, locked gazes.

“I could take you right here, you know.” Casual. Factual. Voice a low purr. His eyes roved downward, desire evident. “Spread you open and mark you up. Right here. Anything goes at Festival, and the Express is part of Festival.”

Her eyes widened when he met them again, genuinely shocked. _Oh. Fuck._

“ofuck,” she said, pupils blown out. Because they’d danced around this dynamic a few times but he’d never gotten _here_ before, and it was clearly _doing things_ to her-

“But I won’t,” he relented, easing back before someone else could fill the space. “Because I. Have. A Plan.”

And that bit of breathing room was all Aunna needed to snap out of wherever she’d just gone. She roused with a blink and a breath, gave a little shrug, and turned her back to him in sublime indifference. After a beat, Martin settled his chin on her shoulder, and rested close against her again.

* * *

Festival, as it turned out, was held just off the coast, on an island about the size of Nantucket.

The _whole_ island.

“Do you remember,” she said, “New Years, 1980. Tasmania.”

“Now you know why I was unimpressed-”

“Now I know why you were unimpressed,” she conceded. “Holy fuck, that’s _massive_.”

* * *

They disembarked with the other passengers at Midway Station. It was mid-afternoon, still hours from sunset, so they decided to walk to the stage where Rex’s band was scheduled to perform and take in some other acts along the way.

When she’d listened to them talk about the music scene over breakfast, it’d been with the narrow concept of her current life, where choices on the radio were limited to pop, rock, and country. Sure there were subgenres and crossovers, but at its base, those were the standard chords.

Still, Martin was always talking about the _Sound_ (capital inferred) — how there’s so little _Sound_ in Shadow Earth music; that even if you took the time to seek out a broader Sound, it was still limited by the technology of the age.

And she’d _thought_ she’d understood what he was trying to say - that sometimes there’s a resonance that goes deeper than listening, and yeah, a lot of music didn’t have it -

Only now Martin had brought her to Festival, and it was an _epiphany_. She squeezed his hand, grinning inwardly. Then she looked up at him, and he was vibrant in the dappled light, smiling broadly.

“Right?”

And it was absurd that the word seemed the only thing appropriate: so small, but so…

She laughed, joyous. “It’s a lot!”

He looked momentarily concerned. “Too much?”

She emphatically shook her head ‘no’, and wrapped her left arm around his middle, prompting his right to drape across her shoulders.

* * *

They wandered like that for a while, pausing to take in an act or two before she finally let out a low, amused huff and asked, “Ok, so Rex _was_ full of shit, right?”

Martin barked. “You’ll have to narrow that down, babe. He has a _lot_ of shit to be full of.”

“About how well known you are,” she clarified. “In this community, I mean.” She slanted him a narrow look, teasing, “You a Rock God, Marty?”

He hedged. “I wouldn’t say _God_ -”

She pinched his left hip and he yelped, slightly shrilly. No less than a dozen people noticed, which she clearly spotted because she leveled him with a look, after.

“It’s really not a big deal,” he continued. “The Nail is mine. Rex pretty much runs the place, but I designed it and I scout the talent, so people know me because they want a shot at playing my bar.” His tone became earnest, “And I’m _honestly_ happy to give it to them. Shit, if they’ve the stones to walk up and ask me, it’s the _least_ they deserve, because they usually gotta get past Rex first, and he’s been a lot more protective since…” Martin gestured vaguely at his left side, trailed off a moment. Then, “Anyhow, I know it’s a stupid indulgence. But it’s nice, being part of someone’s journey. I enjoy it.”

“Who told you it was a stupid indulgence?”

Her tone was emotionless, but she looked genuinely offended on his behalf: like she would immediately hunt down and kick the shit out of that person, if only she had a name to go on. Martin chuckled, turned his head to press a corner of his lips to her hairline in a stealth kiss.

“Not important,” he said. “What I’m really getting at is these people are pretty respectful, overall. They’re not _perfect_ , but most aren’t going to bother me while I’m clearly on a date.”

She scoffed. “Is that what we’re calling this?”

“It’s certainly the impression we’re giving, regardless of what we call it.”

“Good save,” she smirked.

“Not a save,” he countered, pulling out his comm and keying it on without a glance.

The screen showed a white bubble with **CRex** in the upper left corner, followed by the word 'spotted', a series of photos of them - by the fountain, leaving the Nail, shopping on The Green, disembarking at Midway Station - and what looked like a small drawing of a pair of sunglasses.

Aunna looked at the images with mild interest: none of them were on the lawn, or in the gondola; nothing lascivious or invasive; just candid photos of a couple enjoying time together. She decided she was ok with that.

“We look good,” she said when she handed the comm back, then pointed to the third picture. “I can really appreciate a paparazzo with a sense of light and composition, can’t you?”

“I can,” he nodded, shutting off the screen and dropping it back into his pocket.

* * *

She only _really_ discovered how honest he’d been about the situation later, when she stepped out of a restroom to find he’d acquired a small flock of spikey-haired youths in her absence. Martin was turning a flattened black square over in his hands, and listening to the group’s leader make his pitch with genuine interest. He slipped the package into his inner vest pocket when he saw her, however, and held up a forestalling hand.

“Thank you for your submission, Loren,” he interrupted smoothly, all courtesy. “I’ll give it a listen, and be in touch.”

“We appreciate it, Mister Gale.”

The group parted to let him by. He shot her an apologetic smile as he caught her up in a quick kiss. Over his shoulder, she saw the boys exchange congratulatory slaps before she let him guide her away.

“See now,” she said after a moment, “ _I_ think you like it because people trust you to give them a fair shake, and that’s a difficult quality to cultivate.” She curled around his arm, and rested her head against his bicep. “Being a good person is _never_ a stupid indulgence, Marty.”

His steps slowed, hesitated, then moved abruptly sideways, off the path and into a dense stand of trees. He slumped back against a smooth-barked birch, propping himself at her eye level, and eased her to stand between his knees, one hand at the small of her back, the other cupping her face like something precious.

He searched her eyes, looked on the verge of speaking, but his gaze dropped to her lips and he kissed her instead - a light press slowly blooming, curving, coiling until she was sagging against him hands in his hair grinding up desperate wanting more more _more-_

“Please,” she mewled against his lips, working a hand down between them to grip the firm length of him through his slacks. “Just a taste, baby.”

He breathed hard, and his skull tapped against the tree with a couple of dull thumps, “ _oh fuck me_.”

She tilted her head; made to open his fly. “I thought you Had A Plan.” Her voice took on a stern affectation with the last three words.

He seized her wrist at that, eyes fluttering before blinking open to focus on her. They were dark, lust-blown, and for a moment she thought he might still give in.

Martin released her. He slid his hand down the front of his trousers to adjust himself. His palm came back slick and sticky. He held it up in front of her.

And waited.

And Aunna went to that foggy space again. It was _exactly_ what she’d asked for; he was offering it to her. It was also bold, and filthy, and so sublimely hot.

She was leaning forward before she’d made the decision to move, lathing her tongue along his line of destiny in a long, slow slide and, ok, there was _definitely_ something in this power play that was worth exploring. So when she’d completed the stripe, she righted herself, and said,

“Thank you.’

He ticked one eyebrow. Responded, “You’re welcome.”

* * *

Aunna let her braces hang down after that, left her shirt untucked and mostly open at the bottom. Martin kept his vest on, but also looked decidedly less pressed after their tussle against the tree, his shirtsleeves rolled up and tails out, hair waving in all directions.

When they arrived at the correct pavilion to see Rex’s band (The Hellriders, Aunna noted, and shot Martin a level gaze until he confessed to once using the word as a euphemism for “a truly legendary journey” and yeah, so that happened), they were escorted down to the front of the stage, VIP style. Martin chatted briefly with some of the sound crew - a friendly interaction that went completely over her head about directional waves and noise cancellation - until Rex hopped off the side and strode over.

“You made it!” he bellowed, as if there’d been doubt. “You should go up. See the boys.”

“Can see them from here,” Martin retorted, and gave a small wave to the trio tuning their instruments, who hailed back but did not leave their posts.

Rex pshawed, and turned his attention to Aunna. “So, watcha think, Kate?”

“This?” She lifted a finger, directed it wildly to take in the area, “Is _insanity_. It’s _amazing_.”

“Yeah, we’re gonna get along just fine,” he said. “Hey though, man,” he directed at Martin, “Seriously. At least come watch sidestage? You leant Arnie the _Nightingale_ for this! You’re practically _Crew_!”

Martin gritted his teeth in actual deliberation. He knew Aunna liked being down on the floor, back a few rows from center stage, where the crowd was thick and the music was on her skin. But she’d said this was his weekend, and they’d started something new tonight, and maybe he needed a little nudge to clear this hurdle. So:

“Only if he can bring his old lady,” she deadpanned, her gaze fixed on him.

A short beat as Martin returned her stare, and then he laughed, full and loud, and there was a moment - again - where she thought he was going to say something, but didn’t. Still, his expression was delighted; and she realized that it delighted _her_ to put it there.

“You heard her,” he finally said to Rex, who made a _Well, obviously_ gesture, and escorted them to the side of the pavilion.

And when their set started, it turned out they were good. _Really_ good. She was also surprised to discover she knew some of their stuff, and suspected that Martin had been playing it around the house when she wasn’t paying attention. There was legitimate talent, and they’d obviously been together for a while, so they could play in the pocket or break into adlibs and always bring it back around. It was like seeing a supergroup of Styx and Rush and Floyd, and the crowd oh sweet goddess the _people_ it was _electric_ and after the first half-dozen songs she was literally trembling to be subsumed by it.

“You want to go down there,” Martin said from beside her. “Don’t you?”

“Yes,” she replied, almost before he’d finished speaking.

“You can, you know.” He shrugged, “You don’t need anyone’s permission.”

Her head tilted toward him. “Don’t I?”

Martin pondered that a moment, lips pursed. Then, “I don’t want to order you around, Aunna. I’m not looking to be your handler.” He turned his attention to her, imploring and open. “Just want to set the tempo now and then. Savvy?”

And it wasn’t an unreasonable request; she’d been doing it, little by little, for months — letting go of her need to seize control when seeking release, giving over to the moment rather than trying to conquer it. 

“So what you’re saying is, you want more stuff like today.” Her tone signaled she was seeking clarification. “Working up to it, rather than instant gratification.”

He nodded.

“By basically wandering around, being weirdly domestic.”

He pointed toward the stage, laughing. “This is ‘weirdly domestic’ to you?”

“Will I still get occasional threats of depravity?”

“Do you-” He looked perplexed a moment, then thoughtful. “Do you .. _want_.. occasional threats of depravity?”

“That moment on the Express was really hot.”

“Yes,” he drawled. “It was.”

She looked out at the crowd, felt their energy pull at her bones.

“Okay,” she acquiesced. “Yes.”

“Good.” Martin pulled her into his side, kissed her head, and nudged her toward the door. “Have fun.”

* * *

Time funneled a bit after she’d rejoined the masses out front.

Hours later she was sweat-soaked and humming-skinned, breathless and euphoric, her every nerve sparking alive. Which was why it took a long moment for Aunna to realize the only thing she could hear over her thrumming pulse was the chanting crowd, that the band had left the stage-

-but then Rex was hauling Martin from the wings, and Arnie was shoving the Nightingale at him, and the rest of the band was plugging back in and running quick checks-

-and she watched him try valiantly to wave off, but it was too late: the crowd had seen and there was no backing out. So he bowed his head, accepted the guitar, and kicked Rex in the ass as the man walked toward his drum set. He slung the strap over his neck and approached the center mic.

“Hey,” he said, profile tilted down, adjusting the stand with one hand, eyeing the instrument and giving its neck a delicate stroke with the other.

He looked directly at her, then. Had known exactly where she would be in relation to the stage, of course; they’d been to so many shows together by now, how could he not. She tilted her head. He made a minute _c'est la vie_ shrug in return.

And obviously he played for her in Keene, in Burbank, even before in Topanga — more times than could be numbered, really.

But this .. this was _different_. This wasn’t the back porch, or fireside by Lake Tahoe, or open mic at McCarthy’s. She was watching him play to a crowd the size of which she’d never experienced before, and he was _radiant_ in it. She was surrounded by strangers, yet her world winnowed down to just him and his fingers and his throat and the words coming out and-

_she knew those words could hear them in low breaths into her ear as he pressed in folded over thrust up oh god the memory of his teeth in her shoulder_

-her ribs envied the Nightingale, the way his digits glossed over the frets, the firm pressure he applied between; knew this was where those calluses she felt against her came from. And although he was playing to the crowd, his eyes kept finding hers - a little wilder, a little darker each time - as he was drawn under the pull of her undivided attention.

The song shifted into a jam at the end, and when Martin made a subtle indication with his head as he stepped back from the mic, she wended toward the side of the pavilion without hesitation. He gave the crowd a demurring wave, handed the Nightingale to Arnie (who slung his own six string behind his back to accept it), and nodded to Rex as he passed. People cheered. The band riffed on.

Aunna was about to climb the stairs when he exited the side door, and they both froze mid-movement. There was an arresting silence before she said,

“So when I asked if you were a Rock God-”

“Not a Rock God.”

Her words were almost plaintive. “I’ve _never_ heard you play like that before.”

Martin shrugged, and slid his hands into his pockets as he crossed the platform to the steps. “You’ve never given me that much _attention_ before,” he countered.

She made a wounded sound, and set her foot back on the grass. “I pay attention to you.”

His mouth quirked. “Not like that.”

He didn’t stop when he reached the bottom; just freed his hands and continued forward until their fronts were pressed together. He draped her arms up over his shoulders, and crowded her to the pavilion wall. She could feel him digging into her thigh as he nosed her chin up to mouth the underside of her jaw; slipped a hand up into her shirt, caught a hardened nipple between his fingers, and squeezed.

She made a nearly frantic plea in asking, “How late does this go?”

“They’ll be playing until sunup at least.”

And the sound she made _then_ would’ve been absolutely _embarrassing_ if she weren’t too worked up to care.

“Oh, we’re not staying, sweetheart,” he soothed.

“othankgod,” she breathed back.

* * *

Martin insisted on taking transport to the mainland. Because people would notice if he were suddenly Not There, and _Honestly what's thirty more minutes in the grand scheme of things, A?_

There were people very nearly fucking on the zeppelin, though. So that got interesting.

“When you said ‘threats’,” he prompted suddenly.

Aunna sat up and turned sideways on their bench to regard him.

“What you did in here, earlier. What you said. How you acted. That…” She hesitated, trying to detangle what she wanted to convey. Finally, “I’m a willful person, Marty.” He snorted. She backhanded his shoulder. “Shut it! I know you know.” A small sigh, and she started again. “What I mean is, I’ve _been_ ordered around. After a while I decided I didn’t much care for it, having others tell me what to do all the time, and expect it to be done without question. It’s one of the many reasons I left the Service. It made me resentful. Adversarial.”

Martin mirrored her position: slightly angled, elbow on the backrest, knee folded into the space between them. He assumed an attentive expression, and waited for her to continue.

“But sometimes it’s thrilling, to have someone I trust tell me they’re going to put me in my place.” Her words were low; confessional. “Hollow threat or not, my brain, it .. slips a little, gets foggy, quiet.” She shook her head, smiling inward. “I’d forgotten it could do that.”

He remembered the moment against the tree, when he’d acted on impulse and she’d gone glassy, serene, before licking his palm.

“It was a good look on you,” he observed. She pulled a bewildered expression, and he hastened to add context. “Earlier. Under the birch. When I-”

He held up his hand. She went slightly cross-eyed and chewed her lower lip.

“You liked that.”

It was a statement. She nodded anyhow. The hand came to rest on his knee.

“You thanked me,” he said.

“Didn’t want to be rude,” she responded, turning to settle back against him again. “You gave me what I asked for.”

* * *

He did not make her wait when they got to the loft.

The blast door had barely settled when he had her shoved up against it, one arm pinning both of hers over her head, fingers of the other snapping the belt from its loops, wrenching open her slacks to slide under, between, in-

She groaned into his mouth, down his throat; writhed in his grip, overheated-

“ _fuckyesbabyplease-_ ”

-and he was pulling back, hauling her toward the bed; they were flinging clothing from each-other along the way, savage with want.

He chased her up the mattress, hooked her right knee over his left elbow, locked his other arm and gripped the headboard; slid his tongue past her lips as he tilted his hips and entered her, no preamble he was so hard and she was so ready. He mauled her mouth, her jaw, her neck, her shoulders; thrust deep and even and drew the most delicious sounds out of her.

(jesus all the ways she could moan his name when she came)

He stilled as she did, balanced on his own precipice; waited until she moved her leg before propping himself up with his elbows to either side of her; wiggled slightly to settle in the cradle of her hips-

Her head popped up off the pillow. She looked down between them, then met his gaze, perplexed.

“Did you not..?”

He shook his head. She tilted into amusement.

“'Plan'?”

“It's mostly curiosity at this point,” Martin responded.

“Well don’t hurt yourself,” she advised, giving his backside a prod with one heel. “I can go again.”

He started to move; rumbled possessively, “I’m counting on it.”

And the change was swift (or she was still slow from orgasm), because one moment he was stretched out atop her; the next he was half on his knees, her legs butterflied across his thighs, and he was cradling her to his chest, curling her upright as he rested back on his haunches.

“Holy fuck,” she exclaimed, breathless with a little vertigo. “Well done.”

He reached up to brush the hair back from her eyes, cupped her face in his hands and kissed her almost chastely, stroked her cheeks with his thumbs after.

“Do you want this one?”

She took the question carefully. “Speed or endurance?”

“Lady’s choice.”

“Do I reserve the right to change my mind?”

He considered. “Yes.”

“Then I appreciate the effort that went into getting us this far, Marty,” she replied, taking in their position and placing her hands on his shoulders. “But I’ve been desperate to get my mouth on you all day, and I can’t do that from here. Sorry.”

He made a face like he was considering a retort, then looked a bit flummoxed at the thought that’d crossed his mind in forming it. She grimaced uncomfortably.

“Yeah, you don’t want to imagine that too hard,” she suggested as she dismounted. “I like being a Shapeshifter, but I have boundaries.”

“I think I appreciate that, actually,” he said, rolling off of his knees as she knelt at his hip and put a hand to his breastbone, easing him onto his back. He stretched out long, curled an arm behind his head to prop it up; observed her pondering.

“Planning your attack, General?”

“First LT,” she corrected, voice soft.

Her fingers brushed lightly down his sternum, his abdomen. The line of hair below his navel was a damp tangle, pressed flat by the weight of his resting length; her nails slid through it when she gathered him up. Even sticky with her, he was velvet.

She pulled her hair over one shoulder as she bent - because he liked to see, she knew he liked to see - and he reached down to run a thumb along the shell of her ear, breaths deepening when she parted her lips to him.

She enjoyed being on her knees for this; for him. And she planned to let him hold out as long as he wanted; set an idle tempo with an arm draped across his thighs, free hand stroking his hip. But his restraint eventually dwindled under her reverence, and his hand was tensing in her hair, exhalations ending in bitten-off whines, chewing his lips and then gasping-

“ _oh fuck .. oh sweetheart .. I-”_

-and he was flooding her mouth with a drawn-out groan, and she was drinking him through it; her pace unhurried, unchanged.

* * *

The sun found them still awake, trading lazy kisses in a blissful heap atop the bedclothes.

“This is nice,” she told him, slipping onto her side and resting her head on his shoulder, snuggling in. “Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” he replied, kissing her hair and reaching for something on the headboard. “I’m enjoying having you here.”

Music started to play, low and peaceful. She stroked his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, twined their legs together. They rested that way for several minutes before he spoke again.

“I turned thirty yesterday.”

Aunna stilled.

"Technically, I mean."

Silence. Then,

“Ok, first off,” she propped up and looked down at him, “if I _ever_ hear the term ‘cradle robber’ again, I _will_ cause grievous bodily harm to whomever says it. Fair warning. But second-” and her tone remained light when he smiled back at her, but smoothed from humor to sincere “-why would you tell me that now, and not on the day?”

Martin shrugged. “Didn’t want you to feel obligated to anything.” When she leveled a look at him, he chuckled lightly and tucked the hair back from her face. “I don’t know, A. I mean .. it’s not really something we’ve made note of, is it.”

“No,” she conceded. “I suppose not.”

He made a small sound, something like _See?_ , and closed his eyes against the light; nudged her to curl against him again.

She did. After a pause though, she said, “Midsommer.”

There was a grin in his voice. “And now I know.”

The room warmed with the dawn, sultry sweet and content, as they drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Curious? The song played at Festival is '[Arabella](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rGvSqFA70YU)' (or something very like, because Alex Turner is _no_ Shadow of Martin by _any_ stretch of my imagination, and The Hellriders are _not_ the Arctic Monkeys. The lyrics absolutely track tho, and I imagine the stuff Marty writes would fall somewhere between that band and Muse, with a bit of Spoon on the side).
> 
> Aunna & Martin's story continues in the 'Just Another Future Song' series with 'A Crash Course for the Ravers'.
> 
> Kudos are love :) Comments are moderated (for spam, not content), but always welcome. :)


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